


The Scars We Carry

by GGHalcyon (gqepicentre)



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-01 01:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4000003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gqepicentre/pseuds/GGHalcyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[COMPLETE] NUX/CAPABLE. Capable helps Nux make a decision that will seal his fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I

The sky darkened as the sun prepares to set, and around me all I see is the barren wasteland. It is calm now, and I am grateful. And although my hands shake from the remembrance of being almost killed, I cannot stop but admire the beauty that is this wasteland we're traveling through. It is a paradise; it is a heaven, in comparison to the walls of the prison I had been kept with the women I now consider my sisters.

When I volunteered to take post on this look-out by myself, I was met with looks of horror from my sisters. Why would I not want to stay close to them, especially after watching Splendid die right in front of our eyes? How was it that I still had the will power to move and take action instead of wallowing in despair and tears? These were questions they asked me, which I simply ignored... I couldn't tell them the real reason why.

The truth is that I want to be alone, and away from them. I am tired of being huddled and scared, trapped in the cabin of a rig, and crying helplessly because I allowed fear to incapacitate me.

I need...no I want to gaze out into this world one last time, and accept the reality that at any moment I may die and never see the Green Place, but I will die knowing I was not a prisoner or treated as a thing.

So I sit inside this look-out, an old car chassis welded on the top of the rig, my right hand extend before me, caressing the wind and sand as it passed through by fingers. I prop my chin on my forearm on the dashboard and feel the wind against my face, a caress I welcome.

The heavy tires of the truck in motion thread through the desert sands and disperse the sand in flurries. I don't mind it at all. It means that we're moving, and every movement is away from the hell I knew for all too long. And that is enough for me.


	2. II

Moments pass as I am lost in my thoughts and focused on the repetitive sound of the rig tires against the sand. The sun set and darkness has fallen, and the wind is colder now.

I search around me for a canvas to shield myself from the cold, and I find it behind the seat in a heap and amongst the flooring. I lift it and that is when I see him. The very same War Boy far hell bent on being our demise, lying on his side, beneath the canvas. He is shaking and in tears, his body a vision of weakness. His eyes meet mine, but it lacks the ferocity I had remembered.

I scurry back away from him until my back presses against the wall. My eyes are wide in surprise and I quickly study him. He is a confusing sight, a few hours ago he was determined to return us to Immortan Joe at any cost, and now he is a torn man. I wonder what destroyed the War Boys conviction...

He makes no move, but remains lying on the floor on his side, facing me, the canvas thrown away from his body. My eyes catch the glint of a knife not far from my right hand's reach, and he notices it as well, yet he makes no move towards it. There is a pause, and I wonder as I as I study his face, the pained expression there, if this is all a rouse for me to lower my guard.

"Are...are you hear to kill us?" Somehow the question escapes me anyway, and I do my best to hide my fear, because it still resonates within me. The fear is more of the idea that I am afraid to take it upon myself to use the knife to end another's life in such close vicinity. And yet I know as I make a quick grab for the knife, that if I must protect my family, I must and death would be more than welcome if it meant this War Boy would suffer.

"It never was the plan," he says, "To return you to him was the task, and I failed. The death of his wife is in my hands!"

I know he is referring to Splendid, and I try my best not to let the images flash in my mind. "It will not matter what I do now," He says his voice shaky and he says this beyond his tears, "he has already disowned me, he saw my failure. I am nothing now."

I keep the knife to my side, my back pressed against the chassis and I am taken aback.

"There is nothing left but death, no Valhalla. I'm useless!" I hear the pain in his voice and the utter disappointment in him as he mentions his failure.

"So stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!" He sits up and bangs his head against the metal wall of the chassis, "I should have died, I will not be entered to Eternal life. No Valhalla!"

And I see it now. I understand, as I stop him with my hands to his shoulder. I don't know why, but I cannot allow him to hate his life and his failures. He is merely another lost soul Immortan Joe has ruined and crushed, and in those blue depths of his eyes, somehow I knew that his true spirit is not that of hate—and that he would not kill me, he has lost all will to fight, but instead welcomes sorrowfully the death devoid of his Valhalla. He is just another person Joe has made believe to be a 'thing'.

"Stop," I tell him, my hand against his shoulder. I feel the roughness of his skin painted in white paint and sand. He cowers back away from me, his eyes wide in surprise as if my touch is fire. I sit back and watch as he looks at my hands. Hasn't anyone ever touched him like this?

I know the answers to my question, having been aware of the life of the War Boys. War Boys were often trained since their time of illness to devote their lives to be vessels for Immortan Joe. They had short lives, and those who were riders were the ones closes to death. I look at his shoulder, the tumors there and I know that it could be the War Boy had little time left. The idea of no eternal life, no Valhalla, as he was promised by Joe perhaps shook the very core of his being.

"This Valhalla you speak of, what is this place?" I ask, although I know the question, to simply get him to speak with me, to let me understand.

"It is a shiny place where there is bounty, and there's not this life. Twice I have prepared myself to its depths and twice I failed in his eyes—he saw and now I know there is no future for me."

He lays on the floor, "No Valhalla, no sacred place for me to live on."

"No," I say to him, "Maybe those were not your times. Maybe it was not the way to Valhalla."

He looks at me in question.

"Maybe it is your Manifest Destiny to not have died then."

"Is it my Manifest Destiny that you kill me and I die by your hands?" He looks at the knife in my hand, and his question is one of sincerity. He is searching for the answer, searching for someone to tell him what must be done. I have been there, but he must realize that his path is his own and his own choosing.

"Is that what you want?" I move closer to him, searching his face. He has stopped shaking, he brush the tears from his eyes.

"What is my path? What am I to do?" He is lost.

"Only you know your path; you must make it. You must decide what it is that you want to do."

I see his hands in front of him and I let go of the knife and I grab his hands and he does not cower away. "I chose to protect my family and I chose to live in my terms. We are not things."

"Is this why you've abandoned Joe?"

"I'm abandoning a life in shackles, and if anyone is to stand in my way, I am willing to die for it, not because I am told, because I chose to for something I believe in."

He looks at his hands in mine, "No one has ever touched me like that." He arranges our hands so that mine is in his, the roughness of his hands send a shiver through me. They are callous, rough—a complete contrast to the softness of mine. And in silence he opens my palm and traces at the lines of my hands.

"They're soft," he looks up at me, and I smile at him, I try to. A part of me want to cry for him, I feel so sorry for what he must have gone through to be in this kind of life. We were both things to Joe, and I'm sure this War Boys path of life was worse than my own.

He is lost in thought as he touches my hand, "Is this how it is supposed to be?"

I look at him in question.

"There is a feeling in here," he points at his chest, "I don't know, but I can't hurt you."

"I feel that too," I tell him.

"Was I a prisoner too?" He seemed to come to realization.

"We all were under Joe, he cares nothing about us, weather we live or die. He cares only about his life"

"Then what is there?"

"What is it that you want in this life?"

He seems to think of this, his hands caressing mine. "Is there more of these in this life? This ..softness...and this feeling?"

"If you chose, there is."

"A choice..." he looked out into the barren dessert. It is becoming dark now and the moon and the stars are so bright it illuminates the world around us in its shade of blue. There is still time before I have to light the lamp, and I see his pale face clearly. I do not doubt that all his life he was never given a choice, but to simply obey. I know how that is, because I have been there. I knew only the commands given to me, and it was not until Splendid and Furiosa opened by eyes that I saw how powerful having a choice is, and how bright the feeling and also how scary such a feeling that I have my own free will to choose my path.

It is quiet again between us and he lets go of my hand. He looks tired, he looks weak from the day and the weight of his full realization weighs him further. I watch as he lays on the floor again, like a child, his legs drawn, and his face covered by his hands, and his eyes closed as he mumbles things to himself that I cannot discern.

I take the knife and I place it behind him—I hide it and secure it where I doubt he'll find it. Aside from that there are no weapons in this place. I prepare the small lamp and place it in the cup holder in the middle of the chassis and it glows a brilliant light in our surroundings, but not too bright to bring attention.

It is cold, but I welcome it this time—the chill biting my skin as the truck continues to move forward. The canvas, long forgotten, lies beneath the War Boys feet. It is so quiet and I'm certain that at this moment there would be peace—at least for now—and that our enemies were too far to come closer as they were not in sight.

I lay down beside the War Boy, our warmth emanating from each other and it is a comfort. He stops in his talk and places his hands in front of him and stares at me with a fear of uncertainty in his eyes. Is he afraid of for once being treated kindly? Is he afraid that I am not angry with him nor do I make any move to kill him? I'm drawn to him and the vulnerability in his nature, because in his eyes I see my own fears of dying for this cause.

I study him, his face, athe white paint that covers him and the dark paint under his eyes from the gear oils, a common practice for the Way Boys ready for battle. He has mutilated his face to show the sign of the skull, his lips cut and ridged reminiscent of the teeth of a skull of death. How badly did such work of body mutilation hurt?

My hands reach out as if in their own accord and I touch the back of my hand against his cheek—he shift first in surprise, then settles—and I touch those very same lips and I feel his breath hitch against my skin. Warm. Alive.

He is studying me with those blue eyes, but I make it a point not to meet them. I have never touched any other man in my own will and I am doing so for the first time. And I enjoy the warmth of his skin against my hands and I trail them down to his neck, to the scars their and stop at the two lumps I see on his shoulder. There are two smiley faces on each lump and I notice he holds his breathes and I let my hands fall against his chest. I meet his eyes then.

"You've met my friends," he says hushed, but somehow he smiles in a rueful way, "Meet Barry, and Larry," he points at each one. "If it is not this fight that kills me, it will be them and the night terrors."

I blink away the tears that threaten at his very acceptance of his future and he seem to notice this.

"And what of you? What's your name?" I asks.

"I'm Nux."

"Capable," I share with him.

"May I...?" he asks.

I nod my head and I feel his right hand brush the red strands of my hair aside and he runs his hand across my cheek and rest against my neck, a gentle caress.

I wonder if he has ever touched anyone in this way, and I know the answer is the same as it is to me.

I inch closer to him and his hand falls between the valley of my breast and he withdraws his hands and I inch closer until our legs brush each other. I take his hand and I place it on my bare waist.

Our face are so close, only inches apart and again I caress his face as he slowly rubs the expose skin of my waist.

It is just us and the silence and our breathing. Alive and feeling.

And somehow I find myself tracing the lines of the scars against his chest in the form of an engine, ever more showing how dedicated he had been to the idea of being a thing, or being an engine and nothing more.

I trace the lines of the engine and the pistons until it ended at the very valley above his belly button, close to his pants and he catches his breath. I gaze up at him, and I see the tightness in his pants, which as if in a trance I trace with my fingers and I see him shutter.

I do not take my eyes off of him, as I brush over him gently. He squeezes my skin on my waist gently and slowly I feel his hands slowly rise to cup my breast and gently brush the perk nipples beneath the cloth of my dress.

We are so close to each other that our brows press and our breathing become heavy and our eyes close as our lips are so close breathing. I feel him inching closer until his hardness is pressed against my core and my hands caress his shaved head and as if in a trance we kiss.

I kiss him and he kisses me, and I feel only the warmness of our bodies with each other and the innocence in our caresses. I have never touched a man in my own right. Our tongues intertwine and for a moment we only live enjoying each other's touch in the candlelight and the wind that howled.

"Go with me to the Green Place," I whisper to him, as we stopped kissing to catch air. "Create a life and set yourself free."

"There is no place for me but death."

I shake my head, "There is a place for a man who chooses his path..."

"I chose you," he says to me. And somehow I knew that deep in those words were more and I knew as I kissed him again and he shared our night of living, that it could be that this was the beginning and the end for both of us.

FIN.


End file.
